


Break Me Down

by devotchka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Begging, Caning, Fingerfucking, M/M, Power Exchange, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25430104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devotchka/pseuds/devotchka
Summary: There are some things Prompto just can’t control.Like his needs. He craves physicality like sustenance. He bends over backwards for it; he crams time and space for it everywhere he can.Or like the place in him that Gladio effortlessly knows how to access, a place that is undeniable and overwhelming and submissive.Anonymous commission
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45





	Break Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> I sometimes take commissions/requests! I also beta read, co-write, and encourage the world building/writing projects of others! If you have an idea (or anything else) that you would like to share with me, you can reach me at devotchkaao3@gmail.com, or on Discord.

There are some things Prompto just can’t control.

Like his needs. He craves physicality like sustenance. He bends over backwards for it; he crams time and space for it everywhere he can.

Or like his nerves. Despite all the effort, they still get the best of him sometimes.

Or like the place in him that Gladio effortlessly knows how to access, a place that is undeniable and overwhelming and submissive.

It fills him with anticipation, being dragged into that headspace.

Stern commands will do it. An unforgiving attitude will do it. Something about Gladio bossing him around awakens Prompto’s need to please.

He thinks that he could do anything for Gladio if he asked him the right way – if he was _told_ the right way.

Getting on his knees for him is a second nature kind of motion. One moment things are normal – they’re talking like normal, behaving like normal – and the next he is stripping, and the next he is being bent over their bed.

That submissive headspace comes with certain feelings: tension, anticipation, intolerable arousal. Prompto cycles through all of them as Gladio manhandles him, as he takes both of his wrists in one hand and pins them behind his back.

He wouldn’t dream of fighting back on a night like this.

He doesn’t need to see the thin, rattan cane laying on the floor between them to know that he is in for something painful. He doesn’t need to beg, either, but begging is another one of those uncontrollable elements.

“Please.” He hears himself saying. “Please, Gladio, hurt me.”

Strange to hear such a sentence from his own mouth. He thinks about how recently he’s learned to just let words fly sometimes; he thinks about how it comes from a place of obedience, how his words are synonymous with submission in that way.

Something light and smooth runs across the back of his thighs. The cane.

Prompto flexes his hands under Gladio’s grip on them, testing the limits of Gladio’s strength and feeling that there are none, that he will stay here if Gladio wants him to. The thought makes him want to spread his legs.

“You’ve never done anything like this before, have you?” Gladio asks.

Prompto, former virgin prior to Gladio, has not. The most he has done is heard about it. It means he’s got an idea of what to expect, but not really.

He breathes in as those pre-pain nerves begin to settle in him, as the adrenaline starts flowing. “No.” He admits.

“It’s going to hurt.”

Some part of him is more excited than afraid.

“Please.” He replies, and it means _don’t hold back_.

Gladio rewards him with a flick of the cane across the back of his thighs. It hits Prompto’s skin without warning, sharp and sudden. He knows that Gladio is holding back. It still stings.

His breath catches in his throat, and his body wants to tense up. He has to resist the urge to do it. Gladio hits him again – same spot, harder.

The sting worsens. Prompto can hear the impact – the crack of the cane hitting sensitive skin – and he bites back a whimper. He barely has a second to breathe before it happens again, and again.

He’s hitting the same spot, low along his thighs, and the more he hits the deeper it feels like the wounds run. The cane comes down on him again and Prompto’s legs feel like they’re on fire.

He can feel himself beginning to shake already, and he wonders if Gladio feels it, too.

The cane hits a bit higher, then, just above the same spot. Pain radiates through Prompto’s legs, and he realizes just what he’s gotten himself into. Gladio is going to _cover_ him in bruises, and it’s going to take a while.

He’s definitely shaking.

His body trembles and stings and aches, and he closes his eyes, tries to put his head somewhere else. He focuses on Gladio’s motions behind him – the pull and push of his arm as it swings that cane around, the power he puts in each strike, the way Prompto can kind of anticipate when they’re coming if he just pays enough attention.

The cane smacks into the middle of Prompto’s thighs and forces him out of his own head. The sting grounds him in the moment, in the pain, and he whimpers again. It’s all he can do to not scream.

The cane hits him again.

“ _Fuck_ –“

His skin burns hot, and it’s like Gladio can’t even tell.

“ _Please_ —”

It feels like he’s just hitting him harder.

“ _Gladio_ –“

“Why are you flinching?” Gladio replies.

Had he been? Was he anticipating too much?

He’s quiet as Gladio’s fingers wander along his legs, brushing against hypersensitive, abused skin, digging into it. He’s quiet in the sense that he doesn’t reply with words, but with helplessness – with panting and whimpering and gasping as he’s touched.

All of his energy goes into being still. His inner perfectionist decides right then that there will be no more flinching. After everything he’s been through he can take a couple bruises, and he can do it exactly like Gladio wants.

“I’m sorry.” He admits.

“Then show me. Stay still.”

Prompto knows, rationally, that Gladio only stopped to check in – that this is a healthy part of a healthy dynamic. Irrationally, he just wants to prove his worth. He thinks, through the crucible, that he can.

That’s why he’s relieved when it doesn’t stop.

Telling him to stay still was all the warning Prompto gets – all the warning he _needs_ \-- before Gladio strikes him one more time.

And it turns out the break he got just helps the pain come back tenfold. He almost screams, opening his mouth and crying out in pain, letting his upper body collapse until it rests flat on the bed. He doesn’t flinch.

The bruises he’ll have after this will be a sight to behold. For a moment, he remembers photography. He remembers how his favorite color has always been purple, anyway, and how he will carry these wounds with a strange, secret sort of pride.

They reach the top of his thighs. For a moment, Prompto feels like he can breathe again. Gladio lets go of the cane and reaches for his hair, balling a handful of it up in his fist and tugging him up. Prompto feels his back press against Gladio’s chest, bare skin against the fabric of his shirt, and he relaxes into how solid he feels.

He’s trembling, and panting, and burning. Gladio’s lips brush against his neck and he moans without shame, grinding his ass back into him, letting him know that he’s ready for more – whatever more might be.

“Good boy.” Gladio says, and his free hand is cupping his ass now, one of his fingers brushing against his hole. It takes everything Prompto has to not buck his hips into it.

His head is swimming, high on endorphins and sex, his body aching to be claimed.

He feels the urge to say something – to beg to be fucked, mostly – at war with the urge to be silent and obedient.

He doesn’t have time to choose a side. Gladio does that for him, his finger entering him without warning, and Prompto moans in satisfaction. His hips roll back into his touch.

The cane lies forgotten about on the ground beside them. Prompto’s legs ache, and all he cares about is the pressure of Gladio’s fingers violating him, the heat pooling in his stomach.

A second finger joins the first, and they both push into him.

Prompto doesn’t need much when he’s this far gone. He squirms in Gladio’s grip, breathing hard, hands still pinned behind his back. If he could just touch himself, this would be over in moments.

“You feel so fucking good inside.” Gladio says, and Prompto flat out moans for the praise, his head dropping back against Gladio’s chest. “Nice and tight. I think I might fuck you after all.”

He jumps at the chance to beg. He should be embarrassed, and with anything or anyone else, he would, but not like this. “Please, yes, I want it so bad-“

“I can tell.”

Gladio pushes a third finger into him, and his pace speeds up. Prompto clenches around them, feeling full, feeling on the precipice of overwhelmed.

“You feel like you’re gonna come already.”

Pleasure crashes through Prompto’s body unpredictably, mixing in with the pain and the ache, mixing in with the pressure of those fingers working in him. He’s definitely close. He can feel it building and building, threatening to spill over with just the right motion, just the right pace.

All it took was a caning and a couple of fingers in him.

“Not yet.” Gladio decides, and before Prompto can dare to open his mouth and complain he’s slipping his fingers out, leaving Prompto frustrated.

He can’t help the sound that comes out of him in response. Gladio lets go of his wrists, finally, and Prompto doesn’t dare touch him. He holds onto the sheets and lets Gladio do as he pleases.

“I’m not finished with you.”

He tugs Prompto in close against his chest, and his free hand smacks against his ass. Prompto moans for it, spreading his legs like this is what he was waiting for, like he isn’t being hit hard enough to bruise.

His breath is coming in hitching gasps, his body trembling and in undeniable pain. This is exactly the kind of headspace Prompto loves to be in – the kind that keeps him coming back, the kind that helps him feel better than he was before, transcendent.

He’s hitting his limit.

He can tell because the pain is beginning to mount again and he’s already exhausted. He can tell by the way his legs shake, and by the way each slap against his skin forces cries from his throat. He can tell by his loss of composure.

“Please-“ He starts, and flinches as Gladio hits him one more time. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“You can.”

There are no more objections. Gladio only makes him hold out a while longer, and then he stops. He leans back and tugs Prompto into his lap.

He says, “Can you handle being on top?”

Thoroughly exhausted, Prompto still nods yes.

He props himself up as Gladio works his pants open, positioning himself up above his cock and then gently, wordlessly beginning to lower himself down.

The first thing he feels is gratification. He’s finally getting what he wants. Gladio’s cock is thick and long and it stretches him out just right; it leaves him straddling the line between pleasure and pain in all the best ways.

Gladio pushes down on his thighs, forcing him to take it until he bottoms out, and a broken moan escapes Prompto’s throat.

He likes the way it aches. He likes the way it hits too deep in a position like this. He likes that he can hear Gladio taking his next breath a bit heavier.

His back stays to Gladio, and as he bounces in his lap he’s constantly aware of the pain in his lower half, constantly aching and stinging as his skin brushes against Gladio’s legs.

Gladio’s grip on him is tight. Prompto catches himself hoping that it’s tight enough to bruise. His hips rock in just the right way, sending pleasure crashing throughout his body one more time, and he’s already so close that it’s too much.

He comes with Gladio’s names on his lips, arching his back, going lightheaded. He clamps down tight and doesn’t stop, determined to make Gladio come, too.

Gladio’s teeth sink into his shoulder and he cries out in pain, feeling the sharp sting there, the aching burn in his legs, the overstimulating pleasure.

“Gladio, please.” He moans. A part of him can’t take it. Part of him needs it to stop, yet can’t bear the thought. “Please, oh my god, please.”

He can’t even say for sure what it is he’s begging for. Maybe it’s to get off again, if he can. Maybe it’s to feel Gladio come in him, to know he did a good job, to reach that sense of validation. He has no definite idea.

It all sounds good.

Gladio holds him close, slamming him down so hard he whimpers, gripping his thighs to keep him in place. Prompto hears him moaning.

He doesn’t think there’s anything more satisfying in the world than getting Gladio off – maybe not even getting _himself_ off.

Prompto feels like he’s in a haze when it’s over. The adrenaline fades, the soreness sets in, and he accepts Gladio’s help getting cleaned and into bed.

They spend a long time kissing. They spend a long time holding each other. Prompto feels as though he’s earned this closeness; he feels like the strange bond they share is sacred, like it brings them that much closer together.

It’s times like these where he feels most complete. He doesn’t need to hear that he is loved, and they don’t spend a lot of time saying it. Times like these are more about showing than telling.

Still, he can’t but help say it at least once, curled up in his arms, and he takes pride in hearing Gladio say “I love you, too.”


End file.
